


A Bell Rings, Every Time

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2013 [21]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Christmas, Gen, It's a Wonderful Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:05:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade couldn’t save Sherlock.  Mycroft Holmes will have to save Gregory.  A pastiche of It’s a Wonderful Life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bell Rings, Every Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kestrel337](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/gifts).



> The twenty-second installment of this year’s Advent Calendar Drabbles. Because I am lazy, I’m titling the drabbles with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from kestrel337, whose request was actually “angel chimes”, but come on! It’s Christmas! What do you think of when you think of angel chimes, except Jimmy Stewart standing there with Zuzu in his arms, laughing and thanking Clarence? EXACTLY. I had to do it!

The red phone on Mycroft Holmes’s desk seldom rang. There were other ways to contact him, and Mycroft spent little time in his office anyway. And certainly Mycroft didn’t expect it to ring at nine o’clock on Christmas Eve. 

_Ring ring ring._

Except it did. The three, sharp, quick little rings caught Mycroft’s attention instantly, and he looked up from the report he was reading, almost in shock, to stare at the red phone. 

_Ring ring ring._

Any normal phone would have a single _brriinnnnng_ , of course. This particular pattern was…well…. _particular_. Mycroft waited, staring at the phone. Surely the caller wasn’t going to… 

_Ring-ring, ring-ring, riiiiinnnng._

Mycroft rolled his eyes and reached for the receiver. He had no wish to continue the musical merriment via telephone rings. Sometimes, his supervisor could be quite ridiculous. 

“Holmes,” he said into the phone. 

“Mycroft,” said His Supervisor, in that lovely warm, rich, and _round_ voice (if voices could be described as round, anyway). It was a laughing voice, and loved voice, a voice that made you think of chocolates and well-narrated television documentaries, and possibly clouds shaped like lions. An American accent to be sure, but Mycroft supposed no one was perfect. 

Mycroft sat up in his chair. “You rang for me, sir?” 

“Mycroft, there’s a man in London who needs our help.” 

“Sick, sir?” 

“No, worse: discouraged. In approximately two hours, he’ll be strongly considering throwing away the greatest gift of all.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Mycroft. He hesitated. “Sir…are you sure I’m the right one for this assignment? As you know, I haven’t actually earned my— and well, people are beginning to talk.” 

“People always do,” replied the Voice, amused. “Tell me, Mycroft, what were you reading when I rang?” 

Mycroft glanced at the file, and swallowed. “Nothing, sir.” 

“Nothing.” It was clear the Voice did not believe him; he sounded faintly amused and just a bit condescending, but in a very loving way. 

Mycroft let out the smallest breath. “Nothing that pertains to either this work or…the other.” 

“Hmm. Save this man, Mycroft, and I think you’ll have the reward you want.” 

Mycroft’s heart leapt in his chest, and he let out the rest of the sigh. “Yes, sir. Who is the man, and where will I find him?” 

“His name,” said the Voice, “is Gregory Lestrade, and I believe you will find him on the Tower Bridge. There isn’t a moment to lose.” 

* 

The wind whipped down the Thames, quite merry in itself, but anyone else called it harsh and cold. It shook up the water below, it rocked the small boats and tugs back and forth, and when it landed on the man standing at the center of the Tower Bridge, overlooking the edge to the water below, it merrily swirled around him, caught his coat and lifted it up, as if to help him on his way. 

Gregory Lestrade felt the air push him toward the water, the inevitable conclusion that he’d reached months before, but for some reason, tonight it made far more sense than it ever had. And still he resisted, and the wind swirled away, dropping his coat back down to his legs, as if it noticed his hesitance. 

Stupid, really, thought Greg. He’d made his decision: it was better this way. What good was he to anyone anymore? A year ago, he’d been amongst friends, laughing and holding a drink and exchanging merry words. And now there wasn’t a man in the city who thought well enough of him to lend him a quid. 

A step on the far side of the pavement. Another lonely man out on Christmas Eve, wearing a long topcoat and carrying an umbrella. He’d move on, thought Greg, and then he’d do it. Yes. He would. Better to stop putting it off… 

Greg had taken a deep breath, closed his eyes and stepped up on the small rise next to the railing, ready to fall, when he heard the man at the far end of the pavement speak. 

“No, I _won’t_ ,” said the voice, quite irritable, as if he were arguing with someone. “It’s bloody freezing in that water and this suit is _wool_.” 

Greg thought he recognized the voice, and he stepped back down from the railing and peered into the night. “Mycroft Holmes?” 

“See?” said Mycroft to no-one in particular, and then he advanced on Greg. “Well, that’s one awkward conversation avoided. Good evening, Detective Inspector. I’m glad you remember me. I apologize for the interruption, but would you rather fancy a drink before you drown yourself in the Thames?” 

* 

The Diogenes Club was perhaps one of Mycroft’s favorite places. Not the least because it was quiet, secure, safe, and close to nearly everything in London. (A bit of magic there, Mycroft always assumed, kept it four city blocks away, no matter where one was when they felt like going.) 

Also, the very good thing about being on the job was that Mycroft was allowed use of the Speaking Rooms, and the staff ushered both men through the halls before depositing them into the sumptuously decorated sitting room, where there was already a tea tray waiting for them. 

“Ah, very good,” said Mycroft as he hung up his coat. “Tea, Inspector?” 

“You promised me a drink.” 

“So I did, but I rather think you’ve had plenty already this evening.” 

“I’ll judge that,” said Greg, and went straight across the room to the bar. “Bet this lot keeps the good brandy.” 

“Very good,” confirmed Mycroft and settled the umbrella next to his chair. He waited until Greg had poured himself a brandy and downed it in one go before speaking again. “So, Inspector. Tell me why you wanted to kill yourself.” 

Greg choked and coughed, leaning over the bar. “ _What_?” 

“That is what you were intending to do, wasn’t it? Jump into the Thames? Sooner freeze to death than drown. Or catch a nasty infection and die of blood poisoning.” 

“Look, I don’t expect you to – well, maybe you would.” Greg poured himself another drink. “What do you care? I’m the reason your brother is dead.” 

“Not terribly in keeping with the law, to commit suicide, is it, Inspector?” asked Mycroft softly, and Greg snorted into his drink. 

“You would know.” 

“As would you.” 

Greg opened his arms wide. “Arrest me then. Tie me to the bloody chair and call the cops. They can throw me in a holding cell and watch me on the bloody CCTV.” 

Mycroft didn’t move, and Greg snorted. 

“No, you won’t, will you. Even you know I’m a waste of oxygen.” 

“Come now,” said Mycroft softly. 

“Your brother’s dead because of me.” 

“Hardly.” 

Greg shook his head and drank the second brandy. “You, of all people, should be glad I get the same end as Sherlock.” 

“I would be gladder still if you were here,” said Mycroft. 

“Why?” demanded Greg. “Who made you my guardian angel, huh?” 

Mycroft smiled, and looked up. 

“Oh, come off it,” snorted Greg. Third brandy. 

“I’m quite serious.” 

“Aren’t you always. Shouldn’t you have wings or something?” 

“Haven’t earned them yet,” said Mycroft. “And the umbrella does very nicely.” 

“Of course it does.” 

Mycroft stood. “Let’s see. You’re depressed, a bit drunk, determined to walk right back to the bridge was soon as we leave here and throw yourself into the Thames. It’ll be low tide by then, so you’ll want to go headfirst, or you’ll risk only breaking your legs. Headfirst, you’ll snap your neck or knock yourself unconscious, which will certainly result in drowning. No one will mourn you, not really – your wife is remarried, you have no children, no girlfriend, no friends at work anymore. John won’t talk to you, Miss Hooper bursts into tears when you enter the room, Mrs Hudson invites you for tea but you can’t bear to go. You think, you’ll die and be buried and forgotten in death, and that’s best because you’re forgotten already in life. You paid up your lease through the end of February, donated a great deal of money to your favorite charities, and ensured that your will has been left in a prominent location of your flat, as well as the keys to your flat on your desk at work.” 

Greg stared at Mycroft. “That’s a Holmes thing. Not because you’re some wingless angel who sees everything.” 

“Oh,” said Mycroft. “And you still believe in Sherlock Holmes. Do you know who I believe in, Inspector?” 

Greg swallowed. “Yourself, I’d imagine.” 

“Do you know what I was reading earlier this evening? No, of course you don’t. I was reading my brother’s file. Very interesting. You should try it sometime.” 

Greg shook his head. “What makes you think I haven’t? All that potential – he could have been good, you know. If he’d only had someone who believed in him when it mattered. I didn’t. And he died because of it.” Greg set his glass down on the bar. 

“Still think the world would have been better off without you?” asked Mycroft. 

“Sherlock would still be alive,” said Greg thickly. 

Mycroft smiled. “Now there’s a thought.” He looked up. “Could we do that? Lovely.” Smiling, he plucked the glass out of Greg’s hand, and headed for the door. “Come along then, Inspector.” 

“What?” Greg hurried to follow him. “Come along where?” 

The Club was silent – it always was, and Mycroft led him unerringly through corridors until they stepped outside. A light snow was falling, but not yet sticking, and Greg shivered as he struggled to put on his coat. Mycroft waited until he was ready, and then, with a smile, opened the umbrella. 

The wind howled down the street, whistling and whipping every loose shingle and overhang. Newspapers and empty cups flew in the air, twisted and turned before dancing down the pavement, and Mycroft held his umbrella out as if to protect them from the blast. Air crept up their trousers and under their collars, but Mycroft stood firm against it, and the umbrella protected them from the brunt of it. Finally, the wind died away as quickly as it had appeared, and when Mycroft lowered the umbrella, he looked inordinately pleased. 

“There,” he said, and closed the umbrella again. “Now, let’s see, where to first? Ah, yes. New Scotland Yard. Coming, Inspector?” 

Greg stared at him. “What _was_ that?” 

“The winds of change, Inspector. Look in your pockets.” 

Greg frowned and patted his pockets. “Wait, where’s my wallet?” 

Mycroft smiled. “You don’t have one.” 

“Of course I do. I made sure it was in my pocket, so they’d be able to identify the body.” 

“What body? You don’t exist. You were never born.” 

“I must have left it at the office,” said Greg, and he brushed past Mycroft on the street. “Bloody hell. I’ll miss high tide.” 

“Shame,” agreed Mycroft, and followed him, swinging the umbrella on his arm. 

* 

London was dark – it was nighttime, of course London was dark. But even for Christmas Eve, it was dark and deserted – no Christmas lights shone in the windows, no cabs roaming the streets looking for Christmas party fares. Only a few cops who stared hard at Greg and Mycroft as they raced through the streets, kicking aside the rubbish that collected in the corners and was blown out by the brisk wind. There was an acrid smell to the air, too – a bit like the entire city was falling into decay. 

Greg saw this, and did not see this. Funny how the brain works, sometimes. 

The closer they got to New Scotland Yard, however, the busier things became. There were more police vehicles, more people – and more media vans, all streaming directly to the building, as if drawn by a magnet. Greg had to struggle the last few meters, calling out, “Let me through, I’m a police officer,” without anyone paying him any heed, until he managed to struggle past the front gates and into the outer courtyard, blazing with light due to the high-intensity stage lighting erected there. 

“What the bloody fuck?” wondered Greg, as Mycroft reached his side, but before Mycroft could answer, two familiar figures walked out onto the stage, and the crowd of reporters surrounding them burst into noise. 

“Dimmock?” said Greg. “And – Sally? What’s Sally doing here, she’s meant to be visiting her mum in Surrey.” 

D.I. Dimmock approached the microphone, and the reporters settled down. “I apologize for the time and location – I know it’s cold out, but being outside is the only way we could accommodate you all. I can now confirm for you that we have managed to apprehend the criminal mastermind known as the Consultant, and he is now being escorted here, due to arrive in approximately ten minutes.” 

The crowd erupted into shouted questions and rapid-fire clicks of their cameras again. “Who brought him in, guv? How’d you find him? Who is he? Can you give us a name? Why’d he do it?” 

Greg turned to Mycroft. “What is he talking about? I’ve never heard of a criminal going by that name.” 

“Please, please!” shouted D.I. Dimmock. “I’m going to let Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan read a short statement which should answer all of your questions.” 

Sally approached the microphone, and Greg let out a soft exclamation. “Bloody hell, what happened to her? She looks like she hasn’t slept in months.” 

It was true: Sally was gaunt and thin; her clothes hung on her loosely, her hair was pulled back in tight cornrows that pulled at her face and made her look far more severe than Greg had ever seen her. Despite the distance, he thought he saw circles under her eyes, and she kept licking her lips, as though they were badly chapped. And despite the tired smile on her lips, her eyes were drained of joy, and desperately sad. 

“She hasn’t,” said Mycroft quietly. “It has been a rough few years for Sergeant Donovan.” 

“Okay, she never liked Sherlock, true,” acknowledged Greg. “But he didn’t make her life any harder. And why isn’t she in Surrey with her mum?” 

Sally repositioned the microphone and began. “As you know, I’ve been following the Consultant for the last five years since the bloody murders which were made all too personal by the inclusion of my mother, Theresa Donovan.” 

The cold chill went straight down Greg’s spine. The crowd around him was utterly silent and still, and Sally took the moment to swallow down her obvious pain before continuing. 

“I’ve made it my personal mission to find him, and I can now confirm that he is in police custody and will face all charges for the multiple counts of murder, drug trafficking, arson, and conspiracy.” 

“What’s his name! Why’d he do it! When does he get here!” 

“Oh God,” said Greg, eyes widening. 

“Hmm?” asked Mycroft. 

“But before he arrives, I’d like to take a moment of silence,” continued Sally, “and remember why we’re here – it’s not to welcome a criminal to his life of incarceration, but to punish him for the people whose lives he has ruined or cut short. Especially now, I’d like to remember those in the line of duty who have fallen by his hand or his actions: Commissioner Tobias Gregson. Forensic Analyst Steven Anderson. Detective Constable Henry Maguire…” 

The list continued. The list continued for far too long. But Greg no longer heard it; he turned to Mycroft and gripped him by the arm. “What is this?” he hissed under his breath. “Anderson’s not dead. I saw him three hours ago. What the hell kind of game are you playing?” 

“Shhh!” hissed someone nearby. 

“Anderson’s dead because you weren’t here to save Sherlock,” said Mycroft. 

“ _Shhh_!” hissed another person. 

“Quiet!” 

On stage, Sally was nearly finished. “And tonight, his last victims, Doctors Molly Hooper and Michael Stamford.” 

“Oh, fuck,” breathed Greg, but it was too late for more, because there were flashing lights behind them, as the paddy wagon slowly made its way past the crowd. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” said Sally from the stage. “I am pleased to announce the arrest of the Consultant, Sherlock Holmes.” 

“No,” said Greg. “ _No_.” 

It went unheard in the cheers from the reporters, and the paddy wagon went by, into the depths of the yard. Greg turned to Mycroft and gripped him by the arms. 

“Is this your idea of a _joke_?” 

Mycroft was infuriatingly passive. “You weren’t here, Inspector. I never had any luck convinced Sherlock to stop with the drugs. Only you did. And you gave him something so much better – you gave him problems to solve. Is it any wonder that without you, he created the problems instead?” 

Greg sucked in a breath. “John. John was just as much an influence as I was—“ 

“Sherlock was lost before John ever came home from the war, Inspector.” 

Greg stared at Mycroft. “Where. Is. John.” 

But Mycroft looked away. 

“ _Where. Is. John_?” 

“Where do you think?” asked Mycroft. 

Greg shoved Mycroft hard, and ran. 

* 

It was dark in the little churchyard. The tower on the far side of the cemetery was lit by flood lights, but they didn’t really filter down onto the gravestones. Not that Greg really needed them to see the black granite stone, the one he so well remembered from only a few months before. 

The one that now read “John Hamish Watson”, and not Sherlock Holmes. 

“John,” said Greg, and stared at the name, without quite seeing it. 

“Committed suicide,” said Mycroft, appearing behind him. “Three months after returning from Afghanistan. His sister drank herself to death about a month later, but she’d already put in for the headstone.” 

“Mrs Hudson.” 

Mycroft said nothing. Greg turned on him. “Mycroft, so help me…” 

“Greg—“ 

Greg grabbed Mycroft by the lapels and shook him, furious. “FUCKING TELL ME WHERE MRS HUDSON IS, MYCROFT.” 

Mycroft’s eyes went wide. “221B. But Inspector—“ 

Greg barely heard him, already out the door at a run. 

“Inspector! _You might not like what you find!_ ” 

* 

Before, Greg hadn’t been seeing correctly. Or, as Sherlock often said, he had seen, but not observed. 

He’d seen the rubbish along the streets, but now he observed how it piled up in the dark corners and alleyways; how the grime and grease of an unwashed city left a sticky film on everything. How the bins overflowed with debris and refuse, evidence of a city in decline. 

He’d seen the lack of people on the streets, but now he observed the bars on the windows, the security company signs marking the doors, the way the curtains were drawn in, protecting the inhabitants from whatever evils lurked outside. 

He’d seen the police presence, but now he observed that it was thicker than it ought to have been on a Christmas Eve, that the cops looked stern as they watched him go by, as if they expected the worst out of him. And more than that, how not a single one of them seemed to recognize him, though he recognized the faces of at least half of them, even if he couldn’t remember their names. 

He approached Baker Street with a sense of foreboding, and when he finally stood in front of 221B, it was borne out by the sign over the door to Speedy’s. 

_Closed for business_

The sandwich shop was deserted; not even so much as a discarded napkin remained on the floor. The awning was torn and faded, and the flowers were gone from the flowerboxes above. 

Sherlock and John had never put much stock in the flowerboxes. That had been Mrs Hudson’s work, and the place looked deserted. 

It sounded very well occupied, however, if the screaming was any indication. A man shouting and hollering, and Greg ran up the stoop and threw open the door, just in time to see Mrs Hudson shoot a large burly man straight in the chest. 

“And that’s for the bird down in Southwark, you lying bastard!” she shouted, her voice thin and shaking, and then she dropped the gun and began to scream. 

“Oh, God, no,” said Greg, and instinct took over. He knelt by the larger man and felt for a pulse – nothing. 

“I did it, I killed him,” said Mrs Hudson, clearly in shock, and then there were sirens and flashing lights from the street, and the pounding of feet on the pavement. Greg supposed it made sense that the police would respond to a gunshot so quickly, when there were so many of them. 

“Freeze! It’s the police!” shouted the police, and Greg didn’t wait a single moment. 

He ran, straight through their arms, right down the street, and headlong for the river. 

* 

The Tower Bridge, lit up like Christmas. The river, flowing slowly underneath. Greg huddled by the edge, his hands clasped and shaking, and prayed harder than he’d ever prayed before in his life. 

“Mycroft, Mycroft, I’m sorry, I was wrong. I want to live again, I didn’t just save Sherlock, I saved them all – oh, God, Mycroft, take it back. Take it back, fix it! I want to live, I want to live, I want to _live_.” 

Snow began to fall, but Greg didn’t notice until he heard the car pull up behind, and a footstep crunch on the pavement. 

“Greg?” Molly’s voice, quiet and concerned, and Greg spun around, holding the railing tightly behind him. 

“Molly, I – you’re dead…” 

Molly gave him an odd look. “I…no?” 

He stared at confused and very alive face for a moment, and then up at the snow-filled sky. The flakes danced in the yellow light from the Bridge, and he reached up to touch them. They landed on his hand, cold and wet. 

“It’s snowing.” 

“Are you all right?” asked Molly. “Only it’s very cold, and I saw you out here alone. I was just on my way to Mrs Hudson’s party, do you want to come along?” 

Greg stared at her. 

“Mrs Hudson’s party?” prompted Molly. “John said he’d be there. And Mycroft. You should come, it would be nice to give them some company.” 

“John? And Mrs Hudson?” asked Greg, but already he’d stepped away from the railing. “They’re all right? They’re at 221B?” 

“Of course,” said Molly, confused. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.” 

* 

London went by in a snowy blur. 

New Scotland Yard, lit up but without the grand stage or mob of reporters. 

(Sally in Surrey, with her mum, and Anderson in Kensington, with his wife.) 

The Diogenes Club, deserted and dark for the night. 

(The silent rooms keeping their counsel, and Mycroft perhaps somewhere within, drinking a scotch.) 

Baker Street, and 221B in particular, lit up for Christmas, and Speedy’s closed for the holiday but clearly still in business. 

And inside, Mrs Hudson, who greeted him with a kiss and a hug, and John, who was pale and gaunt, his eyes shadowed, but smiling and clapping him on the back, glad to see him even so. 

“I’m so glad you could be here, Inspector,” said Mrs Hudson, holding his hand tightly. “We know you loved him too.” 

“Yeah,” said Greg, a bit winded, and the bell rang again as the door opened, catching him by surprise as a flurry of wind pushed the snow inside. 

“I apologize for my tardiness,” said Mycroft Holmes, and he shook the snow from his umbrella. 

“It’s all right, you’re here now,” said Mrs Hudson as she went to take his coat. John disappeared into the back – still mourning. 

_But alive to mourn_ , Greg reminded himself, and stared at Mycroft. 

“Inspector,” said Mycroft, and he smiled. “Happy Christmas to you.” 

Greg began to laugh. “Happy Christmas, Mycroft. I still can’t take you for an angel.” 

Mycroft’s mouth quirked, and he raised an eyebrow. “Why, Inspector. Who ever said you had to?” 

The bells on the door rang again as Mrs Hudson shut it against the wind, and Mycroft gave Greg a brisk nod, and walked past him into Mrs Hudson’s sitting room. 

If Greg thought he felt the brush of feathers as he went by – well, then. That was only imagination.


End file.
